The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer you
welcome."

Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied : "Sire, I ask for war."

Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of the
muse was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty figure of
the famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his
proud head tilted on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark.

With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. The
theatre was filled with the crowd.

The poet greeted his rival with a smile and a bow. Pundarik returned it
with a slight toss of his head, and turned his face towards his circle
of adoring followers with a meaning smile. Shekhar cast his glance
towards the screened balcony high above, and saluted his lady in his
mind, saying! "If I am the winner at the combat to-day, my lady, thy
victorious name shall be glorified."

The trumpet sounded. The great crowd stood up, shouting victory to the
king. The king, dressed in an ample robe of white, slowly came into the
hall like a floating cloud of autumn, and sat on his throne.

Pundarik stood up, and the vast hall became still. With his head raised
high and chest expanded, he began in his thundering voice to recite the
praise of King Narayan. His words burst upon the walls of the hall like
breakers of the sea, and seemed to rattle against the ribs of the
listening crowd. The skill with which he gave varied meanings to the